"The Hammer!" cried the crowd, chanting the name Maev had chosen for her fights. "The Hammer!"

Tanin sighed and turned away. He hated seeing his sister fight like this in every village they passed through. Whenever he tried to sway her away from another battle, her rage turned on him.

I juggle, fall on stage, and sell my dignity to survive, Tanin thought. She sells blood.

Grimacing, he walked away. That evening he would nurse his sister's wounds. For now, he sought distraction in the festival. Leaving the wrestling pit behind, he approached a dirt square where a puppeteer hid inside a wooden booth, putting on a show. A group of parents and children were watching the puppets, and Tanin paused among them.

One puppet, a wooden girl with long hair of golden wool, walked across the little stage, picking fabric flowers. A second puppet lurked behind her—this one was stooped, hook-nosed, and pale, its eyes beady and red, its warts hairy. Children squealed to see the ugly man, crying out to the golden-haired doll, warning her of the danger lurking behind.

The wooden girl seemed to hear the shouts from the audience. She froze, then spun around to face the lurking man behind her. With a flurry of ribbons and a puff of smoke, the twisted puppet vanished. Where it had stood now roared a wooden dragon, painted black, its eyes red.

"A weredragon!" shouted the wooden girl.

The crowd gasped and cried out. "A weredragon! Be careful!"

Tanin's heart sank. He hadn't thought the day could get worse, but seeing this play soured his belly more than his failed performance.

We are monsters to them, he thought, balling his fists at his sides. He shut his eyes, remembering that night—that night his old home, a village like this, had discovered his family's secret.

His father, Jeid Blacksmith, a beefy man with a shaggy beard. His sisters, headstrong Maev and little Requiem. His grandfather, the wise druid Eranor. And him—Tanin, only a youth in those days. A family cursed. Diseased.

"Weredragons!" the people had cried to them, firing arrows, tossing stones. His own uncle, the cruel Zerra, had stood among them. "Weredragons!"

Today, ten years later, as Tanin stood here in this new village, the voices calling toward the puppet mingled with the voices in his memory.

"Weredragon, weredragon!"

He opened his eyes and took a shuddering breath. In the puppet booth, a new doll—a noble warrior clad in armor, bearing a little spear—raced across the stage and slew the carved dragon. The crowd cheered. The wooden girl rose to her little feet and kissed the hero—a happy ending, a monster vanquished.

"But we're not monsters," Tanin whispered. "We're not."

A voice rose in the crowd. "Oi! Juggle boy!"

Tanin blinked, banishing his memories, and looked to his side. He lost his breath, his heart burst into a gallop, and he felt his cheeks flush. The dancer was walking toward him, her red hair cascading like a fiery waterfall. She swayed as she moved through the crowd, her scanty outfit doing little to hide her form, and gave him that crooked smile of hers.